


Our Cousin Dain

by FB_Dwalin



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Young!Thorin, beastie the pig, dain2k15, young!Dain, young!Dwalin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 09:50:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4387205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FB_Dwalin/pseuds/FB_Dwalin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Smaug attacked Erebor, the dwarves of Erebor, including young Thorin and Dwalin, take refuge in the Iron Hills. </p><p>The lads, restless and bored, soon discover that King Gror's young son Dain has a secret. </p><p>Dwalin tells the story of what Thorin did next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Cousin Dain

**Author's Note:**

> This story was one of the adventures of Young Thorin and Young Dwalin, as discussed on Facebook on January 31 - February 2, 2013. I believe this link will take you to the post in question:
> 
> https://www.facebook.com/dwalin.fundinul/posts/496471740410560?comment_id=4632989&offset=50&total_comments=86
> 
> Another story mentioned in the same post is more fully described in "Thorin and the Fish Whisperer."

You wouldn't know it to look at him now, but when he was little, Dain Ironfoot was the softest, chubbiest dwarfling you'd ever want to meet. He's about 10 years younger than I am, if anyone's counting and you'd better not be.

We were all very young when Thorin and I met Dain. After Smaug took our home and no help came, the remaining Dwarves of Erebor fled to the protection of Dain's grandfather, King Gror of the Iron Hills. We were heartbroken but still alive, and, as Men and Elves told us smugly, those who survive dragonfire have much to be grateful for.

In the Iron Hills, endless councils were held among the kings to decide what to do. Thorin listened helplessly as his grandfather King Thror ranted about the dragon and the gold, and his father Thrain agonized over the fate of the displaced people of Erebor. King Gror nodded but did not speak – he loved his brother Thror, but it was plain to all that the Iron Hills could not hold two dwarf kings.

During those dark days, it wasn't easy being Prince of Erebor – Thorin couldn't fight the dragon, couldn't lead his people, and he couldn't go home. So every now and then, I'd throw him an axe or a warhammer and we'd fight until we were too sweaty and bruised to stand.

Dain, being (as I mentioned) nothing but a scrubby little squirt at the time, used to watch our sparring sessions. I'm not boasting when I say there was a certain amount of awe in the young fellow's expression – Thorin and I had been practicing for decades already and we were pretty good fighters. Dain didn't even have calluses on his hands yet!

It surprised me that the grandson of King Gror hadn't yet begun his training in the arts of war. I mentioned this to Thorin.

“We could teach Dain to fight,” Thorin replied. “It would be something to do.”

“Us? No. He's too soft,” I objected.

But when Thorin gets an idea in his head, he never lets it go. So we went looking for Dain.

The youngster was harder to find than I thought. We looked in the palace library and the kitchens, but he wasn't there. Then we went outside, to the stables and the barns. Dain wasn't there either, but one of the cowherds looked off in a certain direction when we asked about the youngster. I felt certain that he'd just given away Dain's location to us.

“Let's try over there,” I said, pointing off to our left. We almost didn't see the small shed, sheltered as it was behind the main bulk of the barn. Dain had to be hiding something in there, and we would soon find out what he was up to.

As Dain came around the corner of the shed hauling a bucket, Thorin stepped out of the shadows in front of him. “What are you doing?”

Startled, Dain dropped the bucket. “Nothing! Go away!”

I looked in the shed.

“He's got a pig in there,” I said, disappointed.

Dain scrambled to collect his bucket again while trying to block me from getting into the shed. “Stay away from her! You'd better not tell!”

Not tell? Was this a secret? Both Thorin and I slowly turned to look at Dain.

“Your grandfather doesn't know about the pig?” Thorin asked, eyebrows raised. I cracked my knuckles, getting ready to teach the young Iron Hills dwarf a little something about the perils of keeping secrets from his liege lord.

The pig had trotted over to Dain's side and snuffled inquiringly at us. She was a large, thickly-muscled beast with sharp dark eyes under lowering brows.

“Come here, pig,” Thorin commanded, snapping his fingers. The pig's ears pricked forward and she took a step toward him.

“No!” Dain yelled. The pig stopped and squinted up at the young dwarf as if waiting for orders.

“You _trained_ the pig?” I asked, astonished. “She's your pet?”

“Her name is Beastie,” Dain muttered, putting a possessive hand on the pig's thick neck. “She's stronger than a pony and smarter, too. One day I'm going to ride her into battle.”

We burst into laughter at that. Thorin was fairly doubled over with mirth, while I leaned against Beastie's shed for support.

“Charge, Beastie,” Dain said, pointing at Thorin.

And damned if the pig didn't put its head down and surge forward. Beastie was heavy and solid as a battering-ram, unstoppable destruction on sharp little hooves. She knocked Thorin flat. I leaped to Thorin's side and dragged him out of the way before the beast could trample him.

“That pig could have killed Thorin,” I accused. “I'm telling your father.”

Thorin freed himself from my grasp.

“No!” He was staring at the pig, and I didn't like the look of pure fascination on his face. He bent over and slowly approached the pig, holding out the fingers of one hand. “No,” he said in a softer voice. He looked at Dain. “How did you do it? How did you train her?”

Dain puffed himself up importantly. “Found her when she was just a shoat. Her mother probably got killed in a boar-hunt. I smuggled her into the palace, kept her warm and fed. When she got too big to hide in my room, the stable hands helped me build the shed. She's smart, she knows lots of words, and she's a natural fighter.”

By now, the pig had sniffed Thorin's fingers and delicately accepted an apple he'd pulled out of his pocket. As she chewed, he was stroking the top of her head and wearing a goofy smile on his face.

“Thorin, no,” I said despairingly.

“The ravens of Erebor were more like allies to us than friends,” Thorin mused, scratching behind Beastie's ear. The pig grunted in evident pleasure. “A war-pig, though. I bet she'd be vicious in a fight.”

“She nearly killed someone who tried to steal her once,” Dain reported proudly. “And when she's full-grown, she'll be strong enough to carry an armored Dwarf on her back.”

“Hmmm,” Thorin said, his eyes dreamy.

“No,” I repeated.

“If you promise not to tell, I'll let you help me with her,” Dain offered.

After that, Thorin refused to listen to reason. The wooing of Beastie had begun.

 

“You know,” I said to Thorin a few days later, as we were drinking a beer after a sparring session, “Early in the Second Age, a dwarf named Snorri Boar-Tamer leaped onto the back of a boar one day. He broke it in just like a pony, and after that it was forever loyal to its dwarven companion. It's said the boar was fierce in battle, too.”

“If you think I've forgotten about the fish-whispering episode, you're wrong,” Thorin growled. “Do you think I'm going to believe you this time? Not happening, Dwalin.”

“No, just listen. Dain raised Beastie from a piglet. It doesn't matter how many apples you feed her, she's never going to be yours. You need a pig of your own.”

“I don't have time to raise my own pig. I need Beastie.”

“No you don't,” I said patiently. “You just need to find a boar that you can break in, just like Snorri did.”

Thorin set down his mug and glared suspiciously at me. “How?”

All that suspicion hurt my feelings. Where's the trust, I ask you? But I explained anyway. He's my Prince, after all.

“Well, according to the story, Snorri leapt onto its back and rode it until he broke it in,” I said. “It stands to reason that a wild boar would be a lot like a wild pony, in that sense.”

Some dwarves have a natural connection to animals, like Dain does. I don't. I've always preferred walking to riding, but clearly Thorin had his heart set on a boar of his own.

Anyway, we soon set out into the wintery woods to find a boar for Thorin. It took us several hours of hiking around before we decided on a good place to lie in wait.

Thorin had a coil of rope on his belt and I brought a fishing net and a club, just in case.

“This tree will work,” Thorin decided, patting the thick trunk. “The branches aren't too high up. I'll be able to just sort of slide onto the boar's back. That's what Snorri did in the story, right? Like a wild pony.”

“According to the story,” I replied. “But catching it in the net might be safer.”

“Bah,” Thorin said, climbing the tree. “If the story weren't true, it wouldn't still be told. Would it?”

I shrugged. Maybe he was right. In any case, we would soon find out.

It wasn't long before a big, bristly boar with large tusks ambled by. It snuffled at the base of our tree, no doubt looking for the mushrooms we'd planted there as bait (Dain's idea – the lad seemed to know an unnatural amount about pigs).

Slowly and silently, I handed my net to Thorin. He took it and gave me a puzzled look.

I mouthed, “Throw the net over its head. Don't let it charge!”

“What?” Thorin shook his head, looking puzzled.

The boar had almost finished eating the mushrooms. Any moment it would wander off. Frantically, I gestured. “Now, now, now! Do it before it can charge!”

Thorin stared at me. “Show it who's in charge?”

Hearing us, the boar flung up its head and grunted.

“Quick!” I hissed, gesturing at the net in his hands. We had to act now, and Thorin was just sitting there looking at me with that confused look on his face. “ _Now!_ ”

With one last disbelieving look and a shake of his head, Thorin dropped the net, slid out of the tree and landed on the back of the unsuspecting boar.

With a mighty bellow, the beast jumped into the air. Truly, I had no idea a pig could leap like that, especially not when weighed down with the stone-heavy body of a full-grown dwarf on its back. But several inches of daylight showed beneath its hooves as it bucked like a pony. Thorin sailed through the air before landing hard on the ground.

The beast turned on him, razor sharp tusks gleaming in the winter light and mad red piggy eyes glaring with fury. With a snort, it braced itself to attack.

“No!” Swearing in Khudzul, I jumped out of the tree and clubbed the boar before it could skewer Thorin.

The snow began to fall gently around us. It was very quiet in the woods.

Winded, Thorin glared up at me from the ground where he was resting. “Show it who's in charge? What is the matter with you?”

“I didn't say that!” I protested. “I said Throw the net over it before it can charge!”

But Thorin hadn't heard me right, and we fell to arguing over what I'd said and what he should have done. Our shouts were still echoing around the Iron Hills when young Dain showed up with King Gror, Thorin's father Thrain, and a couple of Iron Hills guards.

Wide-eyed, Dain asked, “Thorin tried to ride a wild boar?”

Thrain groaned and shook his head.

Thorin pointed at me. “ _He_ said...”

Before the argument could get started again, I changed the subject. “Hey, we forgot to ask you, Dain. How would you like to start weapons training with me and Thorin?”

Dain looked at his grandfather for permission. King Gror looked a question at Thrain.

Crown Prince Thrain of Erebor muttered, “Did I ever tell you about the time they tried fish-whispering?”

As it turned out, young Dain did begin his weapons training that year, and eventually he became a warrior of renown. But strangely, he never did get around to taking lessons from us. I can't think why.

We ate boar steaks that winter.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written as a gift for Graham McTavish, and included as part of the second ArtMcTavish project which was presented to him at HobbitCon 3. I hope he won't mind my sharing it here.


End file.
